


Don't Gotta Work It Out

by lurrel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Restraints, Top Derek Hale, Vibrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurrel/pseuds/lurrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles could get off like this, if Derek let him, but Derek’s feeling <i>mean</i>. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Gotta Work It Out

It was thirsty work.

Stiles must be parched. His back is covered in a sheen of sweat as he tries to stay still.

The vibrator hums dutifully on, nestled inside Stiles, as Derek walks back over to the bed, glass of water in hand.

"Might want to hold on a little tighter," Derek says, voice light. He pushes it further into the tight clutch of Stiles’ ass.

Stiles groans, his body stretching and bowing in his bonds. His arms are cuffed behind his back, black leather and silver metal. His legs are cuffed to a spreader bar at the ankles. He’s on his knees, ass up and full, and his face is flushed all over, hair sweaty, red mouth stretched over a bright red ball gag.

Derek appreciates the classics. Stiles looks so _good_ like this, trussed up and straining just for Derek. He wonders how long he could leave Stiles like this before he broke, started crying and coming all over himself.

Stiles can’t do that right now -- his cock has a leather strap at the base. Derek put it on before he grabbed the water, because Stiles had been squirming, hips shaking, and his cock was dripping all over the bed.

Stiles could get off like this, if Derek let him, but Derek’s feeling _mean_.

Derek takes a long drink of water, then settles the glass on the nightstand. 

Stiles eyes snap open and he zones in on the glass, then he looks up at Derek with huge brandy-colored eyes. He’s too far gone to plead, but he makes some kind of muffled noise anyway, hips moving in small, abortive jerks.

Derek unsnaps the gag from behind Stiles’ head and gently pulls the ball out of his mouth.

“There you go, babe.” Derek likes calling him that -- they tried, using “slave” and “master,” and Stiles dissolved into giggles before he got through “master” once. “Babe” feels right in his mouth.

He thumbs at Stiles’ bottom lip for a moment -- Stiles’ chin is spit-slick from drooling, but his whole face is covered in a sweaty sheen. Derek wipes some spit off onto Stiles’ flushed cheek.

Stiles works his jaw open and closed for a minute, then grinds his teeth together to bite back another moan. His body shivers, overstimulated. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Derek cards his hand through Stiles’ damp hair as a reward, soothing.

“I’m gonna give you a choice -- I’ll let you get off like this and we can go to sleep, or I can fuck you.”

There’s a long moment, and Stiles’ nostrils flare as he takes some steadying breaths. Derek likes to give Stiles choices, sometimes, drive a stake through whatever haze of acceptance he’s in. Make him pick his own poison.

It’s also a nice way to check in.

Stiles eventually says, "Fuck me," with the last push of oxygen in his lungs and then he just stays, still and panting. His eyes flutter closed and he leans the weight of his head into the cradle of Derek’s hand. It’s the most Derek’s handled him in about an hour, since he finished beating his ass red and hot.

Derek’s touched. “You know what that means for you though, right baby?”

Stiles’ back bends again, as much as he can make it. “Uh-huh,” he says.

“Okay,” He runs his thumb along Stiles’ ear and Stiles relaxes for a second, only tensing when Derek moves away. Derek takes a minute to look, though, to run a hand down Stiles’ spine. It’s nice to touch him again -- Stiles needs time to himself, after Derek beats him past reasoning. The gag and the cuffs keep Stiles on edge, distracted and obsessed with each minute shift in his body rather than all the things swirling in his brain. The vibrator, though, that’s Derek’s addition. He like how desperate it makes Stiles, how it makes Stiles think about him when he’s able to think about anything at all.

Stiles whines when Derek pulls the vibrator out of his ass -- it’s smooth plastic, still thrumming along. It’s been bumped up to top intensity, hard and unrelenting. Derek switches it off, tosses it on the bed.

“You’re too good to me, babe,” Derek says as he unbuttons his jeans, slicks himself up. He doesn’t want Stiles to have too much time to be lucid, to think about anything, so there not much style in what he’s doing.

He pulls Stiles back onto his cock with a hand on his hip and one jerking his hair.

Stiles sounds punched out, making little breathless grunts as Derek starts to thrust into him.

“Ah, ah, fuck,” is about as coherent as Stiles can get. He’ll start begging soon, Derek thinks, but he’s been surprised before.

-

Stiles feels like he’s about to break apart.

He can feel every inch of his body thrumming. The sharp pain in his thighs is bright, and his shoulders hurt -- the pull from his cuffed hands radiates from his collarbones to join a chest-wide ache. The hyperawareness from being tied up for so long is punishing once Derek starts fucking him, making his body teeter on the edge.

Derek isn’t fucking with finesse but each thrust reverberates, a bright light behind his eyelids. He’s been on edge for so long that every odd drag across his prostate is agonizingly good, making his stomach clench and his body yearn, reaching. His shoulders strain.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” is what he thinks he’s saying -- the sounds of Derek sliding into him, the obscene slap of his balls, the thud of his own rabbiting heart are a roar in his head. His internal dialogue is shut off, just radio static and the clawing need to come that burns at the V of his thighs, Derek’s name, please please please.

It’s like stretching past the limit, from feeling good to a satisfying burn to too much, too far. The need to come is circulating under his skin with his blood, bursting out of him as sweat, as groans, as the jerks of his untouched cock. He can feel the desperation in his lungs.

He needs, he needs, he needs, and Derek yanks on his hips, taking and Stiles is just there, to be fucked, to be denied, to get used. Each pinpoint of pain and shocky pleasure is irrelevant to what his body is there for.

It’s overwhelming to the point that he thinks he’s crying, eyes scrunched up as the last of the water in his body escapes.

“Fuck, please,” he manages, throat dry, face damp. His voice cracks and Derek’s grip tightens

“No,” Derek growls, and Stiles would scream if he had the air, the ability to be anything but this deconstructed body.

Derek drives deep, coming, probably, and Stiles’ body sings.

-

Derek lets himself go soft inside Stiles, who is panting and still underneath him.

He is never sure where Stiles goes after he says no, and Stiles isn’t in any position to tell him anything when he’s right there on the edge, when he asks but doesn’t get. This is the hardest part. Derek wants to tug him off, make Stiles come with his eyes rolling back, mouth wide open. But he also wants to give Stiles what he wants by _not_ giving him what he wants.

Derek pets the back of Stiles’ sticky neck and Stiles’ shoulders jerk, fighting the restraint.

The cuffs unhook easily, the spreader bar next, and he rolls Stiles on his back on the sheets, which are filthy now. Stiles is somewhere in purgatory still, eyes glazed. He snaps the cockring off carefully, trying not to stimulate Stiles’ cock any more than it needs to be.

It’s hard to resist jacking him off now, to watch him sweat and curl up under the stimulation. Stiles is flushed from his forehead to his stomach, red and blotchy and lovely.

“Hey,” Derek says, palming the side of his face and tilting Stiles to look at him.

Stiles swallows and it looks painful, but his eyes focus on Derek and he blinks. His eyes are still wide and watery.

“I’m gonna be right back, okay?”

Stiles nods but still throws his hand out to catch Derek when he tries to move away, so he sits on the edge of the bed, holds Stiles’ hand and pets his hair until he nods again, eyes closed.

Derek comes back with another glass of water, equipped with a straw. He helps Stiles sit up, wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds the water up for him to sip.

They sit like that in the low light of the bedroom, quiet. Stiles’ erection doesn’t exactly wilt but he doesn’t seem to be buzzing any more. His whole body is quiet, heartbeat slowing.

“You okay?” he asks when Stiles is done, head lolling on Derek’s chest.

“Yeah.”

“You want to take a shower?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“You want to sleep? You sure you’re good?”

“Maybe a washcloth. Cold one?”

Derek gets one, wipes off Stiles’ face and neck, cleans him up. He lets Stiles do his own cock, and Stiles fumbles with it a little, willing his erection to go down.

“I have to pee,” he says, staring down at his dick. It’s still damp at the tip, red and hard, curved a little. Derek likes Stiles’ cock, the velvet skin, the smell of Stiles that clings there.

“I could get ice,” Derek offers, and Stiles sighs and nods.

Stiles does not like ice but it gets the job done, and Stiles scrambles up out of the bed and over to the bathroom.

He’s not restrained but the cuffs are still around his wrists and ankles, and that’s a lovely sight. He’s got a bite mark bruising on his shoulder, something Derek doesn’t remember doing to him, and his ass is still a warm pink, with some bruising coloring it.

Derek thinks about that sometimes, keeping Stiles this way. He doesn’t let himself think about it very often. Wolves used to keep humans for sex, he knows, and weren’t always nice. Maybe Stiles would like it -- a weekend home from college, maybe, of being bent into a shape just for Derek.

Derek isn’t sure he’d be good at that, though. He doesn’t think he needs to get used to casually hurting him, not with a history of instincts like that. He’s never told Stiles this little tidbit of werewolf history, either, because he doesn’t want Stiles thinking of it every time he snaps restraints onto his wrists.

Stiles _asked_ him to be mean that night.

It took a lot to get to this point, where Stiles could ask him something and Derek would know what to give. Derek knows sex, and Derek knows power games, but he didn’t think he’d find someone so eager to try the two out. Not again, not someone who didn’t want to hurt him with it.

Stiles clambers back into bed, flopping onto the mattress. “I wanna come,” he says and yawns.

“Yeah,” Derek says, pulling the top sheet out from under him and off the bed completely, and retrieving the comforter from the floor. It’s escaped relatively unscathed. “But you won’t.”

Just saying it like that gives Derek a vicious thrill.

Stiles immediately latches onto Derek when he gets into bed, a warm and sticky weight.

“I wanna,” he says, and Derek kisses him, soft. Stiles makes a startled little noise but melts into it, letting Derek lick into his mouth. It’s nice, actually, holding Stiles in his arms like this and just kissing him, no goals or expectations. Derek keeps it light -- he’s not trying to work Stiles up, and eventually Stiles pulls away.

“Don’t undo all my hard work,” Stiles says, then he says, “I guess my hard anti-hardness work.”

Derek laughs and pulls Stiles closer, mouthing at his neck. Stiles sighs and settles into him, solid. His breathing evens out soon -- sleep is easy when his brain is just a flutter of unresolved pleasure.

Derek thinks about how he’ll wake Stiles up the next morning, a hand around his dick, his mouth on Stiles’ neck. Maybe he’ll suck him off, watch as Stiles endures another long period of teasing, of sitting on the edge until Derek says yes, do it.

The next morning, Derek is going to make him come until he begs to stop.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks recrudescence for taking my existential porn crises seriously. Happy birthday & thanks to abuseofreason for ~believing in me~.
> 
> Title is from a Fitz & the Tantrums song, lest you think I couldn't come up with a song title about orgasm denial.


End file.
